WHEN YOU WERE A GENERAL, YOU NEVER HAD A BAD day. Generals had drivers. Generals had staffs. Generals had people who made sure their stinking alarm clocks didn’t malfunction so they didn’t oversleep.
More importantly, when you were a general it didn’t matter if you overslept.
Mack Smith wanted more than anything to be a general. He’d had a master plan from the day he entered the recruiting office, and until getting shot down over Somalia three months ago, he’d followed it perfectly: combat experience, an air kill (two), serious seat time in the country’s most advanced planes. He had numerous connections inside and outside Washington, dozens of military godfathers—all of whom knew he had the right stuff and were willing to pull strings to make sure he got ahead.
His next step, command of a top-tier squadron, had seemed assured. For the last three months, though, everything seemed to be going wrong. The President—bit of a windbag, but still the commander in chief, don’t forget that—had shaken his hand and thanked him—thanked him!—for doing such a “good job over there.” Then he’d gone and lost the election. With him went the Defense Secretary, who had smiled and murmured something about a promotion to colonel.
Worse, Knife hadn’t been able to snag an important assignment. The gig testing Sharkishki was the best he could manage, a bit of an end run that had brought him back to Dreamland against his wishes. He’d taken it in hopes that it would lead to an assignment at Nellis heading the Aggressor squadron, which was where the MiG and its brethren were headed next. Recently, though, there were rumors that the Aggressor squadron, which trained top-rung fighter pilots for combat, was overstaffed. It was possible he’d get there only on temporary duty, assigned to show the boys how to work the stick and rudder—a cushy job certainly, but not one calculated to take him to any great heights. It would also put him back where he had started, in search of a command billet.
Was he in the midst of a bad streak? Or were others out to sabotage him? Everywhere there were minor annoyances trying to trip him up. Like his alarm clock. And this morning’s Dolphin, whose pilot insisted on waiting at Nellis for nearly a half hour because he was the only passenger.
As if anyone else important might show up.
By the time Knife reached the hangar where he and the engineers were due to review the upgrades to the MiG’s passive avionics, he was nearly forty-five minutes late.
Which didn’t explain why his team wasn’t here.
One look at the man who was, Major Franklin Thomas. and Mack knew his luck was going from bad to absolutely terrible. Thomas was a bean-counter who always came up three beans short. He also never delivered good news.
“You missed the meeting,” said Thomas.
“What meeting?”
“0730. There was an e-mail on it last night.”
“To me? Musta missed it.”
“Major, I won’t sugarcoat this,” said Thomas. “The Advanced Aggressor program has been canceled.”
“What?”
“Completely. The MiGs are going to be mothballed.”
“You have to be shitting me.” He gestured toward the three fuselages to the right, in various stages of renovation. “There’s got to be ten million dollars of work tied up in those planes, and never mind what the airframes cost.”
“The Aggressor program isn’t going to make the cut,” said Thomas. “The new Administration believes it’s better to cut bait right now, rather than dragging it on. I can run through some of the numbers if you want.”
“Oh, fuck that.”
Thomas’s lower lip quivered and his cheek jerked up nervously. “The Russians have canceled most of their developmental programs, so our efforts to anticipate them no longer make sense. We would be training against a nonexistent threat.”
“Bullshit.”
“E-ev-everyone’s going to be reassigned to other Dreamland projects. Of course, we’ll be securing the airframes that we have. Now you’re not technically Dreamland personnel, so the colonel mentioned that he’d help find something for you if you need help.”
“I don’t need God’s help,” said Mack, practically spitting Dog’s very unofficial and not exactly flattering nickname.
“Major, this isn’t going to affect you adversely. It’s just a little bump.”
“Screw yourself, Thomas, okay? Just fucking screw yourself.”
Aboard Mo
23 January, 0915
EVEN THE PEOPLE WHO FLEW B-52’s CALLED THEM BUFFs—Big Ugly Fat Fellas, or Fuckers, depending on whether there was a reverend around. The venerable Cold War bombers looked clean on the first sketch pads, but even by the late sixties wore a variety of blisters and stretch marks across their approximately 160-foot bodies. Each modification made the bomber a more potent weapon, but most also took a slight nick out of its aerodynamic qualities. Never fast to begin with, latter-day Stratofortresses positively labored in certain flight regimes, including low-level maneuvers.
Not the Megafortress. With a sleek needle nose, an ultra-clean fuselage, carbon-fiber reinforced wings, and a modified tailplane assembly, the EB-52 could accelerate through a forty-five-degree climb from one thousand feet, its speed touching 423.5 knots even though it carried a simulated weapons load of 28,000 pounds of iron bombs.
“We can go faster,” Cheshire said as they climbed through seven thousand feet. She’d let him take the pilot’s seat to continue his training.
“Engines at max,” said Dog.
“Engines at maximum power,” concurred the computer. “We should have more thrust,” complained Cheshire. “Eight thousand feet, going to ten thousand.”
The outboard J57’s rumbled noisily, as if Major Cheshire had annoyed them. Still, the airplane’s indicated airspeed slipped back toward four hundred knots. Cheshire made some adjustments on her side of the control panel, but nothing seemed to have an effect. They reached ten thousand feet; Bastian began pushing the nose down, trimming the plane for level flight.
“Air speed 380 knots,” reported the computer.
“How can that be?” said Dog.
“Problem with Test Engine Two,” reported Cheshire, a moment before the computer flashed a warning on the status screen. The PW4074/DX engine’s oil pressure shot down, then up off the scale. The temperature went red as well.
“Shutting down Two,” reported Cheshire.
“Two, yes, shutting down Two,” said Dog. His mind hesitated for a moment, his brain momentarily caught between a dozen different thoughts. The synapses were temporarily clogged by the memory of the only time in his life that he’d lost an engine in flight and couldn’t get it relit.
Unfortunately, it was in an F-16 over the Atlantic. No amount of restarts, no amount of curses, could bring is back. He’d bailed out into a moonless night at ten thousand feet—and even with plenty of time to contemplate how cold the water would be, he’d underestimated the chill by half.
But he was in a Megafortress now.
“Trimming to compensate,” Dog said calmly, remembering the routine Bree had taught him during the simulations.
“Good,” said Cheshire. “Okay. Okay,” she sang, running through the instruments on her side.
The Megafortress wobbled slightly. Mo’s speed continued to drop steadily, but he was still in control.
“I’m going to bank around and try for Runway Two,” Bastian told Cheshire.
“Two’s no good,” said Nancy. “The Flighthawks are using it for touch-and-go’s. Three is our designated landing area.”
“Three then.” Bastian clicked his radio transmit button. “Dreamland Tower, this is Missouri. We have an emergency situation. One engine is out. Request permission to land on Runway Three.”
“Tower. We acknowledge your emergency. Stand by.”
Dog started to bank the plane. His hands were a little shaky and the artificial horizon showed he was tipping his wing a little too much.
“Temp in Engine Three going yellow, going—shit—climbing—red,” reported Cheshire.